


The trouble with Sam

by Spnfanfromeurope



Series: John won't win parenting awards... [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Parenting, Belts, Corporal Punishment, Cussing, Gen, Non-Consensual Spanking, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:07:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29020206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spnfanfromeurope/pseuds/Spnfanfromeurope
Summary: Preseries.Hunting - but where did Sam go?Sam is stubborn.Tempers run high.John is desperate. And he won't be winning any parenting awards.And Dean is caught in the middle.Warnings - bad parenting. Belt spanking, violence.
Series: John won't win parenting awards... [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091657
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	The trouble with Sam

When Dean woke up, he immediately knew that something was wrong.  
There was quiet where there should have been sounds.  
Pulling his gun out from under his pillow, he sat up, turning quickly around, pointing his gun at the empty room.  
Nothing. Just quiet. Empty. Then he realized what the problem was: Sam was gone. Shit.  
It wasn't that he didn't know, where the kid was.  
Sam had told him. Several times, insistently, and there was no changing his mind. He was going to take the bus to the next town over to take his SATs even if Dad said it was a waste of time and had forbidden him from going.  
Since there wasn’t really anything he could do about it. Dean got up, showered and went to the kitchenette to make some breakfast.  
It was quiet in the motel room without Sammy here.  
Dad was touring the nearby villages, looking for the baddies, who’d been killing teenage girls. Dean had just settled down in front of the TV to watch a rerun of an old Godzilla movie, when the phone rang.  
It was Dad. He was as short as always and didn’t give Dean a chance to get a word in. He just went: “It’s me. I found a coven of witches. I need you and Sam to get your asses out here and back me up. I'm going in from the East. You’ll go in the back way, from the west. Here's the coordinates. Be there at 11:05 precisely. Synchronize watches. 10:14 exactly in 5-4-3-2-1. Be there.” And Click.  
Dean looked around the room gloomily. Oh, well. He’d just have to go alone.  
As Dean burst through the door to the old barn at exactly 11:05, he found his dad already engaging one of the witches. Another rushed Dean, while the third was chanting something over a hexbag by a black altar.  
Dean kicked the witch, saw his dad going down with a grunt, to start writhing on the ground. Punching the witch he was fighting away to gain a moment, Dean spun on one foot, pulling and throwing his knife in a single, smooth movement, sending the blade right through the hexbag. Dad immediately stopped his agonized writhing and got up, just in time to see Dean go down under the punches and kicks of two witches rushing him together.  
John dispatched the witch he had within reach and rushed to his son’s aid.  
“Where’s Sam?” He yelled as he pulled one witch away from Dean.  
“Not here!” Dean yelled back, stating the obvious, as he got up and turned like a ballerina, swinging a machete of all things, elegantly beheading his remaining opponent.  
Together they got rid of the last of the witches. They burned the altar to the ground. Then set the entire barn on fire to cover all tracks of what had happened.  
John finally turned and stared at his son.  
“A machete? What on earth did you bring that for? Beheading is for vampires, you know that.”  
“Yes, well, I’ve realized that beheading tends to kill most things, no matter what kind of fugly they are.” Dean answered with a nonchalant shrug.  
John shook his head and got back to the important point.  
“Where’s your brother?”  
Dean sighed. “He took the bus to Rapid City to take his SAT’s.”  
John cursed. “I thought I’d told him to drop that. It’s a waste of time anyway. It’s not like he is going to go to college. We don’t have the money; besides, we need him here, with us.”  
“I know, Dad. I know. He is real smart, though.”  
“Don’t you start too, Dean.”  
“No, Sir.”

When Sam got back to the motel, and saw only Dean’s car outside, he felt a wave of relief. Dad wasn’t back from the hunt yet.  
But the look on Dean’s face as Sam walked in, made his stomach knot up.  
“Dad knows?”  
“Yeah. He needed us for back up. He found a coven of witches. They were doing all the killings.”  
“Witches?”  
“Yeah. Dead witches now… Sam, what were you thinking? Dad told you No. He told us to stay here, be ready to back him up.”  
Sam shrugged, “Yeah, but I told you, this was my best chance to take the SATs – and I did really well on them too, I think.”  
“Sam, Dad just went out for some supplies. He’ll be back soon and he’s pissed. When he gets back, you better just tell him what happened, apologize, try to smooth things over. I mean he’s really pissed.”  
“No.”  
“Whatdaya mean, ´No´? You have to…”  
“No. I won’t apologize for taking my SATs,. Trying to have a future.”  
“Sam, please, he’s gonna kick your ass when he gets back, you know that.”  
”You think, he can?” Sam whispered too quietly.  
Oh, shit.  
”Come on. I know he can. For fuck’s sake, Sammy. Just tell him, you‘re sorry, at least do that much.”  
“No.”  
Sam turned his back on his brother and went into the little bathroom.

When John came back, he dumped the shopping next to the door and started yelling almost before said door had closed behind him.  
Sam tuned most of it out. It was just the usual “Family needs you. Monsters killing people. Obedience blah blah blah”  
When Dad started to undo his belt buckle Sam’s mind jerked back into the moment, his considerable temper rising like a hot wave of lava.  
Oh, hell no. 

Dad jerked Sam’s shoulder towards the table, but Sam pulled free and turned towards him, jaw jutting out defiantly.  
“No.” he said.  
John grabbed his arm and tried to drag him towards the table. Sam pulled backwards, ending in what can only be described as a tug-of-war with Sam’s arm as the rope.

John’s mouth was moving, but Sam couldn’t hear him over the loud buzzing in his ears.  
Time moved slowly here, where his temper was balanced on the edge of a knife blade, seconds ticked by, measured by the beat of the war drum of his heart. The world was full of details, each mote of dust, each scratch on the Formica table standing out, razor-sharp.  
When the hard hand moved from his arm to the back of his neck, the levee broke – Sam turned on his dad, shoving him back with both hands on his chest, finally doing some yelling of his own.  
Later, he couldn’t remember what he’d said, exactly. A lot of things. About wanting a normal life. Hating hunting. College. That dad didn’t even care about his sons, he just wanted to control them, just wanted soldiers, not sons. 

John, already angry, shoved back, physically as well as verbally, and when Sam suddenly punched him in the gut, he retaliated, more by reflex than by design, with a quick uppercut into his son’s belly, followed by a left-handed hook to the jaw that would have sent the lanky teen to the floor, had it landed on its target.  
Later, John would be silently grateful that Dean chose that moment to throw himself into the fray, putting his shoulder in the path of the punch and taking it with a slight grunt.  
Pushing Dean out of the way, John grabbed his youngest, just as the boy was straightening up, turned him and shoved him down over the table. Holding him with a hard left hand at the back of the neck, he reached under the boy and with quick fingers undid his fly and tugged his jeans to his knees.  
He leaned his left elbow into the kid's back to help keep him down while he slid his old brown leather belt out of his jeans. Still keeping a hand on the kid, he let the belt fly, landing a hard stroke squarely across the boy’s ass.  
Sam jerked and grunted under the impact. 

Dean watched, hands slowly clenching and un-clenching as Dad laid into Sammy.  
His brother was yelling inarticulately for each stroke and kept trying to push himself of the table.  
Not that Dean blamed him.  
They had both been on the receiving end of Dad’s belt more times than he cared to remember, but he was pretty sure Dad had never hit any of them this hard. 

Dean shifted from foot to foot, trying to decided whether he should interfere or if that would just make everything worse.  
Before he reached a conclusion, Sam suddenly went limp and stopped struggling.  
Dad stopped the belt’s downward arch and let the thing dangle loosely by his side.  
He moved the restraining hand from Sam’s back and took half a step backwards.

“So, Sammy, you got anything you want to say to me, boy?” he asked, a growl in his voice.

At first Sam didn’t move. Then he slowly pushed himself up on his hands, head hanging, face hidden behind a curtain of shaggy hair.  
Slowly, slowly he raised his head, turned his face towards his father and said, enunciating clearly: “Screw you!”  
Then he turned his face back to the table and just as slowly laid his upper body back down on the worn plastic. 

No one moved. The sun paused. The clouds hung motionless in the sky as the wind held its breath.  
Johns head turned jerkily like the head of a badly geared robot towards his oldest son.  
Dean lifted his eyes from his brothers bent form and looked at his Dad. The sound of his jaw closing made a loud click in the quiet room. 

He lifted a hand, moving as if underwater. “Dad,” he started, not knowing what he was going to say after that.  
John’s face slowly turned almost purple, the big vein in his temple was dark blue and throbbing like a drum. In the same robotic way, he turned back to his youngest son, his hand floated up, up, up back over his shoulder and when it started moving back down he was swinging his belt as if it was a baseball bat and he was going for a home run.  
He was stopped mid-swing by Dean’s hand suddenly wrapping itself around his wrist.  
“No. Dad. Don’t.”

John ripped his arm free and turned to his eldest.  
“Dean,” he growled.  
“I know, Dad, I know, but not like this, please Dad. You…” Dean’s voice trailed off.  
John shook himself like a wet dog. He lowered his arms, then his head and stood there for a moment, just breathing.  
Then he suddenly thrust his belt towards Dean.  
“You do it, then.”  
Dean took a step backwards.  
“Me? No, Dad, please. I can’t.”  
“’It was you who had to go in with no back up.”  
“No, Dad, please.”  
“Either you do it, or I will, but by god someone is gonna do it”  
Dean shook his head desperately.  
Then his eyes caught Sam’s.  
Sam had pushed himself up on his elbows, face turned towards his father and brother.  
When their eyes met, and held, Sam slowly nodded, pleading in his eyes. Silently begging. Please, Dean.  
Me? Dean asked, without words, and got his answer the same way.  
Yes. Please. Don’t let him…

Reluctantly Dean took the belt from his dad and turned towards his brother.  
Sam hid his face in his arms, but not before Dean had seen the raw relief in his eyes.  
He looked at his intended target and winced. Ouch. Dad had left a crisscrossing of welts and the thought of landing the belt on that chessboard of pain made Dean feel slightly ill. He stepped a little more to the side and aimed lower. 

The belt landed with a twack on the untouched skin at the undercurve of Sam’s ass, and Sam jerked against the table but didn’t cry out.  
John nodded, apparently satisfied, and stood back, watching, quietly, arms crossed, while Dean painted his brother’s skin red from just under the ass to the middle of the thighs. When he reached that point, he took a deep breath before he started from the top again. Sam flinched and hissed, but otherwise remained still.  
Dean had found a rhythm and went carefully back to mid thighs for the second time. Then he stopped and turned to his dad, holding the belt out.  
“That’s it, Dad. He’s had enough.”  
John nodded brusquely, took his belt back, and went over to pick up his abandoned shopping.  
“Very well then. We are moving out before anyone starts to wonder about that fire we set. We’re going to Buffalo, first motel in the yellow pages, pack up and follow me.”

When the door shut behind him, a deep shudder ran through Sam’s body as it lay there, stretched over the table-top. Then he pushed himself up and reached down for his jeans. 

“Jeez Sam, don’t, wait a moment,” Dean went over to the dresser and threw a pair of sweat pants to his little brother, “here put these on instead. Shit. I’m sorry, Sammy.”  
Sam sighed. “Nah, Dean. Thanks for stopping him. Shit. That was a bad one.”  
“You kidding? What had you expected?”  
“I don’t know, Dean. I’m just tired of his shit. All that “Obey orders” “Need to know” bull shit.”  
“Sam… no… you know what…never mind. Get dressed, I’ll pack up, we got to get moving.”

Being used to the whole process, it only took minutes before the brothers slammed the motel room door behind them and threw their bags into the Impala.

Dean slid in behind the wheel, and shook his head, when Sam opened the passenger-side door. “Don’t be a fool, Sammy. Lie down in the back seat.”  
“Don’t call me Sammy,“ was the answer, he got, but to his relief, his brother sounded more like himself again, although there was an exhausted edge to his young voice. 

Dean turned on the radio and the local DJ chattered happily while Sam settled gingerly on his side, curling his longs legs up awkwardly.  
He remembered a time when both he and Dean could sleep comfortably on the broad back seat of the Impala, but those days were long gone. 

On the radio, Billy Joel started singing. Dean was humming along to the tune as Sam drifted off to sleep. His brother’s voice with bits and pieces of the song followed him into dreamland:  
hhmmmhhmmmm  
Where the only thing you feel… Are loaded guns in your face… And you'll have to deal with...  
Pressure hmmhmmmmmm mmm mmm … I'll tell you what it means…  
Pressure. Pressure  
hmmmhmmmmmmm mmmm…. You'll have to answer. To your own. Pressure. Two men out and three men on. Nowhere to look but inside. Where we all respond to … Pressure. Pressure


End file.
